


You Know I'll Do Anything I Can To Help You

by sunken_standard



Series: So What Was Your Last Girlfriend Like? [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, PWP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-29
Updated: 2017-05-29
Packaged: 2018-11-06 05:19:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,635
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11029449
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunken_standard/pseuds/sunken_standard
Summary: "I need you to stay as far away from it as you can. This isn't like before, or like other cases. I think... I think I might be in over my head."  He hadn't meant to make that confession.





	You Know I'll Do Anything I Can To Help You

**Author's Note:**

> So I thought I'd wrapped up everything I wanted to say and tied it with a bow in the last fic, but then I decided to just use this universe as a vehicle for miscellaneous headcanons that I have, fortified with porn.
> 
> Beta'd by madder_badder (though I changed some stuff after, so any mistakes are all because I can't leave well enough alone). Not Britpicked.

*

Magnussen was patient. It could take years for the opportune time to present itself and he didn't mind waiting. Probably enjoyed the lead up more than the payoff.

 

Sherlock was tired of waiting, nor did he have the luxury of time; every day that passed drove John and Mary further apart and he hated it. They _belonged_ together, they were _married_ , they were going to have a _baby_. Mary had barely spoken to him since John had moved back in, and John... John was miserable. Insufferable. Pitiable. As much as he liked having his best friend around again, he didn't want it like this.

 

It was partially his fault that they were in this mess. He'd poked the bear. He'd made himself the first domino in a chain he'd been too shortsighted to anticipate.

 

Thank God no one knew about Molly. They always overlooked her, though he had no idea how. Even the people closest to him were completely clueless. _Mycroft_ didn't seem to know. If he did, he'd have said something.

 

Sherlock had an inkling of an idea, the embryonic stages of a plan to kill two birds with one stone. Like any of his plans, he knew it would be dangerous. It was that thought that had him slipping out of the flat after John had gone to bed. He was starting to run out of lies when he had to face the _where are you off to_ s and the _you got in late last night_ s.

 

It wasn't like he was carrying on an illicit love affair. He had nothing to be ashamed of. He only wanted something for himself, though, someplace where he was untouchable. A measure of peace, respite.

 

He'd thought about that night so many times, turned it over and looked at it from every angle and the fact remained that now that he knew what it could be like, he wanted so much more of it. At the very least, he owed her. For everything she'd done for him while he was in hospital. For letting him use her flat as a hideaway. For (probably) being the final straw that ended her engagement, for turning his back on her after she'd done _that_ for him.

 

His head was swimming with too many thoughts by the time he let himself into her flat, stripped, got into bed with her. He was going to do something stupid, probably the first of a series of very stupid things, but he never was the smart one, was he?

 

He tucked himself in behind her. "Molly," he asked, making sure she wasn't asleep.

 

She grunted an acknowledgement and took his hand. She'd held his hand in hospital every time she visited; she'd been the only one to touch him at all aside from his mother and the medical staff. He didn't think she knew just how much it meant, sometimes, when morphine had his brain bobbing along on top of stormy seas, when the pain was still there under it, ready to drag him down (served him right, he supposed, for redeveloping a tolerance).

 

"You were right, before. That night, I mean. Something  _ is _ coming." 

 

She turned to look at him. "What is it?"

 

He wasn't ready to lay out any details yet, since he only had a vague outline of possible events. He needed more options. "I don't know yet. But it'll be soon."

 

"What do you need me to do?" she asked. There was a hint of wariness in her tone.

 

 _There should be_ , he thought. She wasn't stupid. She knew almost everything about the situation with Magnussen. He shouldn't have told her, probably, but the morphine and her soft, sad eyes had cracked him wide open. She'd taken everything surprisingly well, considering. The thing about Janine and the much bigger thing about Mary. He supposed she was just as grateful as he was that Mary hadn't shot him in the head and gone on her merry way. Molly had a... _unique_ outlook on life and an entirely too forgiving nature. He wasn't about to complain, it was what had got them this far.

 

"I need you to stay as far away from it as you can. This isn't like before, or like other cases. I think... I think I might be in over my head." He hadn't meant to make that confession.

 

He held her in place when she tried to turn to look at him; he wanted to protect her from everything, even his self-doubt.

 

"You know I'll do anything I can to help you," she said, persistent.

 

And she would. She'd put herself in the line of fire for him if it meant getting whatever result he needed. She'd already done it before.

 

"I know," he said, trying to gentle his tone. Just thinking about what could happen stirred up a cloud of emotions he didn't want to analyse. "But I can't let this pull you down, too. Magnussen would think nothing of ruining your life if he knew it could be used against me, and I will not let that happen."

 

Magnussen would go after her career. Everything she'd done for him three years ago fell under the Official Secrets Act, but her name was already out there connected to his in a capacity of more than friendship thanks to Anderson. Mycroft's people were good at scrubbing records, but they couldn't be certain no one in the world had saved a local copy of one or more of his crackpot posts, or that any of the members of his 'society' who had seen them wouldn't decide to pick at that thread to unravel the whole thing. Not all of them were imbeciles.

 

Molly's career was her life. He knew what it was to lose one's identity; unlike him, she didn't have the fallback of dismantling an international crime syndicate for the British Government to soften the blow. If Magnussen dragged her through the mud, she'd be lucky to get a job as a shop girl, let alone find something in medicine or academia. Even Janine's trick wouldn't work for her; she didn't have the personality to sell a torrid affair. Any interview would boil down to 'I gave him a handjob while he was high, he lasted five seconds, then fell asleep.'

 

She would resent him for the rest of her life.

 

He kissed her shoulder, a comfort. For her, for himself; didn't matter. She squeezed his hand, message received and understood.

 

He should leave it there. He'd said what he really _needed_ to say, more or less, got the relative peace of mind that came from it. He should settle in, content to feel her body against his, let himself sleep.

 

There was more he _wanted_ to say, but didn't have the words for. Promises, apologies, neither of them meant anything. He could show her, though.

 

Taking a page from her own book, he pulled up the sleeve of her shirt and kissed her shoulder. He could tell by the way her breath hitched and her body tensed that she liked that; he wondered how far she would let him take this. He kissed her skin again and again, running his hand over her body before slipping under her shirt to touch her breast.

 

He loved the soft, firm weight of it in his hand, he loved the way she sighed as he teased her nipple. He'd spent quite a bit of time over the last few months remembering the way it felt to touch them; the first time he'd had a wank after leaving hospital, he'd thought about what it would be like to have his mouth on them, to climb astride her hips and paint her breasts with thick white ropes of come. He'd counted himself lucky that he hadn't popped a stitch from the sheer intensity of it.

 

He pressed his half-hard cock against her arse, kissed her jaw, sucked on her earlobe; everything he could think of to get her so turned on that she wouldn't be able to think.

 

He wished he could take back what he'd already said. It hadn't been fair to make her worry, to make her carry his burdens. If he could make her forget, just for a little while, maybe that would make up for it. He pushed the blankets down and sucked a mark into her hip, worked her underwear down. She didn't stop him.

 

Who was he kidding? This was for him just as much—if not more—than it was for her. He wanted her more than he'd ever wanted a woman in his life. Not just sex; he craved the connection. He wanted to feel her, feel close to her. He wanted to share something with her, and he'd wanted it for a very long time.

 

He kissed her stomach, looked up at her to make sure he wasn't misreading this, that they were on the same page for what was (hopefully) going to happen. She bit her bottom lip, plump with arousal; her cheeks were flushed and eyes heavy-lidded. She most certainly wanted him.

 

It was enough to be going on. He'd done a lot of reading about sex and intimacy in the past and was finally getting to put his knowledge to good use. He stripped her pants and kissed his way up her leg; she had lovely legs. Shapely. He'd thought about how they would feel around his waist or over his shoulders more than a few times.

 

He swallowed deliberately. He was getting ahead of himself. He kissed over her hip, her stomach, finally got his mouth on her breast. At least _this_ he had experience with. He'd read that women with smaller breasts were more sensitive; the anecdotal evidence of his sample size of two bore that out. She reacted almost violently to the pleasure, her body moving of its own accord and her fingers twisting in his hair.

 

He resettled himself, got a bit more comfortable. Laced his fingers with hers because he needed to feel grounded.

 

She touched his jaw, his ear; it sent an electric shock down his spine and directly to his cock. She moaned and he _needed_ , but he didn't know what or how, only that he had to kiss her, had to have his mouth on hers. He pressed against her, seeking friction, relief; he could feel how wet she was through the material of his pants and he knew she needed it too.

 

He wondered if they would get off together just like this; he let her lead because he was really fine with anything she wanted as long as there were orgasms involved. There was something tawdry about the fact that she was only naked from the waist down and he was still wearing his underwear, something filthy about the idea of coming in his pants like a teenager while she was spread out below him.

 

If he kept thinking like that, he would most certainly come much quicker than he wanted to.

 

"Get a condom," she whispered.

 

Oh God. It was actually happening. _Sex_. Not just an orgasm with another person, but an orgasm with himself inside that other person. He was equally terrified and beyond ready as he took one of the condoms from the mostly-full box (trying not to think about the last time she'd used one) and struggled out of his pants in probably the least sexy way imaginable.

 

It was only due to the years of training himself to repress all physical signs of distress that his hands didn't shake as he tore open the packet and rolled it on. Thank God he'd practised this when things with Janine had started moving much faster than he'd anticipated; he would have done anything to get out of it, but he would have been a fool not to be prepared for all possibilities.

 

The look on Molly's face was one of pure hunger; she wanted him as much as he wanted her. He knew that was how it was supposed to be, but it still made him feel... He didn't know what. So many things, some of them in direct conflict with each other. If he stopped to examine it he would probably lose his erection and that would open a Pandora's box of its own; best to leave it and just go with the thing people had been doing for a million different reasons from the dawn of time.

 

He lowered himself over her and kissed her again, thinking—quite sentimentally—that he was going to treasure this single moment, this whole experience, no matter what happened. He really hoped his lack of experience didn't show as he guided himself inside her.

 

The sensations, dulled as they were by the condom, were better than he was expecting. The whole thing felt unreal; he was _inside_ her. He was afraid to look at her, to see her face and for her to see his because he was afraid of what might show though. He buried his face in her neck and groped for her hand to once again ground him, as he felt like he could very easily be overwhelmed by all of this.

 

His mind was fragmented; he tried to pay better attention to what he was doing but there was so much everything that all he could do was keep going. His body was telling him he needed to _move_ , so he listened.

 

"I don't think I'm going to last," he confessed, needing to reassure himself that he did everything he could to set her expectations low to soften the inevitable disappointment.

 

"Then just fuck me," she said. It was an order and a plea and he wasn't sure what part of that turned him on more, but he was compelled to obey.

 

The grip of her around him was nothing like his own hand, like her hand; it wasn't as tight, but it had its own kind of enveloping snugness that was just this side of enough. _More, more, more_ was the overriding impulse as he fucked her, as she fucked him.

 

"You feel so good," she said, pulling him closer. The praise did things to him, dragged all kinds of emotions up from the depths and he felt the overriding need to explain, to _communicate_ with her.

 

"S-so do you," he said, actual words difficult. He pressed his mouth to the closest bit of skin, trying to pull his brain together enough to externalize everything roiling within it. "This is... I've never... I want—want to make you come," he struggled out ineloquently.

 

He was so close himself, he didn't know how much longer he could hold on. The fear was there, too, always dancing at the edge of his mind. _Don't let anyone see weakness, ever. Keep your guard up, vulnerability is not an option. Maintain control._

 

He didn't know how close she'd actually been, but that had been enough to tip her over; she moved desperately against him, her whole body pulling taut as she cried out. Her orgasm was overwhelming in its complexity, from the way her thighs spasmed against his hips to the way her back arched and her fingers locked his in a death grip.

 

It was like the last time, when she'd told him to let go; she granted him permission with her body. Everything became a blur as let himself fuck and grunt and come like the base creature he was. He drifted, pressing his affection and appreciation into her skin with his mouth because there was nothing else he could do to convey it.

 

He got himself back together enough to pull out before the use of the condom was rendered null and void by leakage, cleaned himself up and binned the evidence. He lay down next to her, pulling the blankets up to cover them both now that they weren't generating their own heat. Molly pulled him to herself and he leaned in to kiss her, still feeling a bit shell-shocked and needing... something. Connection, reassurance, what he always needed from her.

 

He got lost in his own thoughts, the feel of Molly's warm skin under his hands lulling him into a trance. He tried to put names to his emotions and assign them the appropriate places in his Mind Palace, but his brain was slow and lazy and he was more content to just let it be for now. One thing was abundantly clear: he'd keep her out of what was coming at all costs. It wasn't motivated by chivalry, but by selfishness; she was his only refuge and he needed her to remain safe.

 

He had the disquieting thought that there would always be another Magnussen, another Moriarty, someone who would want to use the people around him to get to him. It was an inevitability.

 

Were he a stronger man, he would sever ties with Molly and send her on her way. He couldn't, though. Really, it would be as foolish as cutting off his own arm because he got a papercut and was afraid of gangrene. As long as he was vigilant, proactive, no harm would come to her. He'd keep her tucked away like a little bird in a nest somewhere in the rafters of the version of his life everyone else had constructed.

 

That decided, he cracked his eyes (when had he closed them?) to look at Molly, drink her in a bit because he could. He didn't often let himself look lest he be caught staring. Staring was rude, creepy, and above all, following someone's eyeline spoke more about their desires and priorities than any bit of detritus on their clothing or the way they combed their hair.

 

Molly was worrying about something, probably the same thing he was. He didn't think she was regretting what they'd just done; if so, she wouldn't be so close to him right now. Would she?

 

Regardless, he didn't want her to worry. She could do it later, not that it would change a thing.

 

"Molly. Stop thinking and go to sleep." He kissed her forehead, let his lips linger while he breathed her in.

 

He felt her relax; she tipped her face up to kiss him—soft and full of affection—one more time before snuggling into him. He had to be very careful not to let himself get too used to this. It might lead to a mistake.

 

*

 

"No."

 

"You said you would help me however you could." It was low, but he needed her. Wiggins was good, but he wasn't that good. Not good enough to safely dose a pregnant woman, two elderly people, and one naturally high-strung anorexic.

 

"No, Sherlock. This plan of yours is half-arsed and it's going to get someone killed." Her face was pinched; she leaned against her breakfast bar and stared him down. As though she could intimidate him, especially while wearing an utterly ridiculous onesie printed with a garish faux-Christmas jumper pattern of zigzag stripes and reindeer.

 

"Do you have a better one? I'm all ears," he said, a bit clipped and a bit snide. He didn't usually use that tone of voice with her; they'd never actually properly argued. He supposed the change in their relationship had brought about more than one shift in their dynamic. Not that they'd talked about it. Or even acknowledged what had happened a week ago. Or three months ago.

 

She set her jaw and glared at him; he saw the moment when her resolve crumbled. She knew Magnussen had to be stopped. She didn't want anything to happen to Mary or the baby.

 

"Fine," she said. "But someone's going to need to be there to monitor them just in case they have an adverse reaction."

 

"Already have it covered," he said, smiling as he dropped the stack of files in front of her.

 

"I'm not going to do it," she said, her gaze unflinching as she looked up at him.

 

"No, you won't. I said I wanted you as far away from this as possible and I meant it," he said sharply. It came out as of more of an order or a declaration than it should have.

 

She sighed and pulled the top file off of the stack. "Fetch me my laptop, will you?"

 

*

 

He woke up to Molly crawling into bed with him.

 

He'd got tired and gone upstairs, taking the chance that he was still welcome in her bed even though she was cross with him; she hadn't stopped him. He hadn't bothered with pyjamas, too lazy to dig them out of her drawer and he never liked sleeping in them anyway. He kept his pants on, though, mostly because he didn't want it to look like he was assuming too much.

 

He quickly realized that she was only wearing pants herself; he wondered if she was expecting sex. Not that he was opposed, exactly, but he was still groggy and would rather go back to sleep while he was able. It had been a very long week and it was only Wednesday.

 

"I finished the workups. I want to go over them with you before you run off to put your drug-elf to work," she said, settling herself against him.

 

"Mm," he agreed, sliding an arm around her and pulling her closer, enjoying her warmth and skin and the comforting weight of her against his body.

 

He woke again around sunrise, the weak winter light filtering in through the window. Molly had shifted away from him through the night, flopping over to lie on her back. He was quite aware that his usual morning erection showed no signs of flagging; he wondered how unwelcome it would be if he were to wake her for the express purpose of sex.

 

He didn't think that night last week had just been a one-off. She wouldn't have come to bed without a shirt if she didn't want some form of intimacy. More sensual than sexual; a way of asking for his touch without saying a word. He supposed sleeping together (mostly) nude was rather intimate just so.

 

He shuffled closer to her and she inhaled sharply; the only other sign she gave of being awake was the way her feet flexed under the blankets. He slid his hand over the sheets and found the smooth, hot skin of her stomach, resting his palm there to feel her breathing, the jump of her pulse.

 

She smiled, her eyes finally cracking open; she moved the arm that was twisted up next to her head to loop around his neck. She pulled him closer while arching her back in a stretch, which was much more endearing than alluring, but sexy all the same.

 

"Morning," Molly murmured.

 

"Morning," he said, returning her smile. He was struck by just how different this was from any other time, even before they'd been physically intimate. They'd never woken up together, never said good morning from a distance closer than half a room apart. He wasn't sure what it could mean, if it even meant anything at all.

 

It was strange, in that it wasn't awkward or uncomfortable at all. It felt perfectly natural, just like it felt perfectly natural to lean in and kiss her. They hadn't kissed apart from their two sexual encounters; he had the thought that he wouldn't be put out if that were to change. In private, at least. Obviously. For now, though, he would be quite happy for a kiss to lead to more.

 

Molly rolled onto her side to face him, his arm sliding around her waist as she moved. She leaned in for another kiss and the head of his cock brushed her belly; he fought a shiver from the sensation. He felt her smile against his lips.

 

She trailed her fingertips down his arm from where she'd rested her hand on his shoulder, then over his side to caress the skin along the waistband of his pants. He was thankful for her experience; her actions were always sure, deliberate. She wasn't shy and she didn't waste time.

 

She ran her fingertips the length of his cock, her touch maddeningly gentle. He slid his hand over the swell of her arse before rolling her onto her back again and covering her with his body. He quite liked being on top of her. It was primal; the urge to dominate, the desire to be submitted to.

 

Molly broke the kiss. "Don't put pressure on my bladder, I have to pee already," she said.

 

"If you have to go, you should just get up." He didn't want her to be uncomfortable. Rather the opposite. He shifted his weight off of her so she could slip out from under him.

 

"Nn. Don't want to. Bed's too warm. Plus, ah, it kind of makes it better sometimes. More urgent."

 

"Ah," he said, filing that away as he dipped back down to kiss her again. He could understand the heightened sensation, though he didn't really care for it himself. He didn't need the desperation to come to be any more urgent than it already was, especially considering she'd just confirmed that they weren't just fooling around a bit, it was leading somewhere.

 

He palmed her breast, the nipple tight under his hand. He flicked it with his thumb and circled it with the barest hint of pressure, enjoying the way she gasped against his mouth. Her fingers twirled the hair at the nape of his neck; her other hand moved over his cock, stroking lightly and then simply holding it.

 

He was still baffled by all of this on some level, that he trusted her with the most delicate part of himself and that she even wanted it in the first place. That he'd been able to give her pleasure with his own body (worthless and vile as it sometimes was), that he'd been able to allow himself to take what she offered and to crave more of it. It hardly seemed possible.

 

He kissed a trail down her neck to her breast, wanting more, wanting to show her how much he appreciated this, appreciated her. He wanted to do everything, now that he could. He skated his hand over her stomach, her hip, her thigh, then back up to caress her through the satiny material of her pants. She was already wet and swollen with arousal; he traced the outline of her labia and the firm little bump of her clitoris with a fingertip.

 

She made a breathy little moan and her legs opened wider; he thought that he'd really like to try using his mouth on her, but he was still working up to that. Oral sex was even more intimate than penetrative sex, the top of the pyramid in the hierarchy of sex acts and was still rather intimidating.

 

He stroked her slowly, letting the movement of her hips guide him. As much as he enjoyed the texture of the fabric of her underwear and the kind of naughty thrill he felt touching her through them, he really wanted more. He started to inch her underwear down and she reciprocated by pushing his pants over his arse, a rather nice surprise. They broke apart by mutual unspoken agreement just long enough to get naked; they rearranged themselves more comfortably on their sides, bodies pressed tight together while they kissed.

 

Molly hitched her leg over his hip and he took the time to appreciate the smooth expanse of her thigh before his hands found her arse again. The angle was awkward, but he slid his fingers between her legs from behind to caress her; she bucked and moaned into his mouth. She wedged a hand between them and gripped his cock, giving it a few firm strokes before moving higher and sliding the head between her labia, rubbing it against her clitoris.

 

He breathed heavily against her mouth; the sensation was amazing. More amazing still was when she shifted again, sliding him farther back; she held him in place while she rolled her hips so that he penetrated her.

 

Time seemed to stop for a moment as he realized he was inside her with nothing between them. Instinct had him pushing himself deeper into her before he could stop himself. Molly thrust down against him until he was probably about as far in as he could get in their current position; she made a noise of contentment as she swivelled and rocked her hips, nipping his bottom lip gently.

 

 _This feeling is why people make so many stupid mistakes_ , he thought.

 

"We should use a condom," Molly said, her hips still moving.

 

"Mm," he agreed, still marvelling at the feel of her, memorizing what it was like because it might not happen like this again. Or for a very long time, at least. It was incredible; she was so hot, so wet, so unbelievably tight. He could feel every little movement she made around him, every pulse and flutter.

 

She moaned as he thrust once, shallow, experimentally. He did it again, leaning in to kiss her, suck her bottom lip into his mouth. He felt like he was hooked up to a thousand volts, raw electricity coursing under his skin. She rolled her hips, her thigh flexing and pressing harder against his waist.

 

"Do you think you can pull out?" she asked against his lips, dipping down to nip his chin.

 

His hand tightened on her arse, unintentionally pulling her closer still. "Probably not," he said honestly. He'd be lucky if he lasted as long as he had the first time, which had been all of two minutes. The condom was a good idea for more than just preventing an accident neither of them were ready to deal with.

 

The thought of it, though—the possibility of having a child so close in age to the Watsons' and everything surrounding that—brought on a swell of emotion he didn't understand or have a name for; now was not the time for those thoughts. At least it had disengaged him enough from his body to be able to think.

 

She hummed an acknowledgement but made no move to disentangle herself to get a condom. Instead, she moved against him, pulling him even deeper inside herself, making a little noise as she spasmed around him. He didn't think it was an orgasm but it still felt amazing.

 

"Molly, we really need—"

 

"I know, I know," she rushed out against his mouth, biting his lip. "Just feels so good like this," she breathed.

 

His cock jumped; any more of that and he would be twenty seconds away from making a fool of himself.

 

"Oh, it does," he agreed, trying to be reasonable, trying to will himself to pull away. If she tried to stop him or argued, his control would shatter and he'd fuck her just like that, consequences be damned. He really had to _not do that_ while he still had the presence of mind to be able to.

 

"Okay," she said, pressing a frantic line of kisses along his jaw. "Okay."

 

She did pull away from him then, and it took just about everything he had in him not to hold her in place himself.

 

The air was cold on his body as she rolled to her opposite side; he couldn't help but reach out and trail his fingers down her back, over her arse. It was base and crude, but he loved the way it felt under his hands, couldn't get enough of it.

 

She used her teeth on the condom wrapper, then quickly rolled it on him. He pulled her back to him, kissing her like she'd been gone a week. Wanting to get back to it as quickly as possible, he hitched her leg back over his waist, his palm coming to rest on the back of her thigh. She reached between them and positioned him again, shifting downward until the tip of his cock was inside her.

 

She put her hand on his chest, using him for leverage as she sank farther down onto him, enough for him to begin moving himself. He watched her face while he thrust into her, her mouth open and her eyes closed in an expression that looked like his cock felt so good it bordered on painful. He loved that he could do that to her, affect her, make her feel it. To make her helpless in the face of her need. To make her feel how he felt sometimes (most of the time) when he was with her.

 

She moved her hand from his chest to his neck, held his face while she kissed him. He tried to anticipate what she wanted, tried to read the way her body moved to gauge the pace; she seemed content to just kiss him and roll her hips into his slow, shallow thrusts.

 

He swirled his fingertips over the round of her shoulder, stroked them down the top of her upper arm; he moved his other hand to rest at the small of her back, gently pressing her closer, as close as she could get until they were like pages of a book. His range of motion was hampered, but he really just wanted to feel as much of her as possible right then.

 

Molly reached behind herself and moved his hand from the small of her back to her chest, enough to communicate what she wanted. They had to pull apart a bit for him to get his hand on her breast, but the loss of contact was worth her sigh of pleasure. He kneaded and squeezed gently, rolling the nipple, pinching it just a little harder than he should to feel her react against him.

 

He really wanted to use his mouth, to suck and to bite and to make her buck and moan against him. _Nothing ventured, nothing gained_ , he thought, rolling her onto her back again.

 

"I won't put pressure on your bladder," he said quickly, keeping his weight on his knees this time.

 

She laughed and he felt it from the inside. He kissed her one more time, smiling, before pulling back and bending to suck a nipple into his mouth. He resisted the temptation to look down to where their bodies met; he was only hanging onto any semblance of control by a thread and that would surely snap if he actually watched himself fuck her.

 

She gasped a soft _oh_ and jerked against him; he thought he had a better chance of lasting if he held mostly still and let her do the work. If he could find it in himself to pay attention, he'd get a better idea of what she liked.

 

The angle wasn't the most comfortable for his neck and shoulders but he welcomed the discomfort. Anything to prolong it; Molly arched her back and pressed her breast more firmly against his mouth. He bit down with his lips over his teeth, more hard than gentle. She cried out, fingernails raking across his lower back in a way that made him buck against her involuntarily, driving his cock deeper.

 

"Like that, like that, don't stop," she said urgently, ending on a moan.

 

Apparently she liked things a little rougher than he was given to understand real women (read: outside of porn) were supposed to. _Be gentle with girls, Sherlock_ , he'd always been told. _They're delicate, you don't know your own strength_. He thrust into her again, still trying to keep it smooth and controlled, just _more_.

 

"Oh yeah, ah, yeah, so close, just like that," she chanted, pleading. Her voice was breathier, higher-pitched; it raked over something deep and dark and hungry inside him that made him want to possess her, bite her, mark her, claim her as his own. Gentle could wait.

 

He tightened his arm around her waist and moved the other to clamp his hand over her shoulder, resting all his weight on his elbow and slightly changing the angle of penetration. He bit down on her nipple again, this time lighter but with teeth; he fucked her harder while watching her face as much as he could from that angle.

 

"Oh fuck," Molly cried, her knees and calves pressing into his sides. She felt tighter, hotter, constricting around his cock, her body sucking him in and swallowing him down.

 

"Oh, gonna come, fuck, I'm—ah!" she ended on a cry as she curled around him, her fingers digging into his back.

 

He sucked harder on her nipple, snapping his hips against her, drawing it out until she shook and whined and pushed his head away from her breast. His own orgasm took him by complete surprise; he'd been so close to the edge for so long he hadn't even noticed when he started to fall. It was quick-sharp-paralysing, his whole body going rigid as he came.

 

He leaned up to kiss her, feeling her shiver as his cock—still hard but already starting to lose a bit of firmness—pressed deeper inside her for a moment. He didn't want to pull out, he wanted to stay like that until he went soft or to try for that rare-but-not-impossible second orgasm without fully losing his erection. Not a good idea with the condom, though.

 

He broke away long enough to pull out before going in for just one more kiss. He still couldn't get enough of her.

 

She pushed him away again. "Sorry, but I really, really have to pee now," she said.

 

He moved off of her and grabbed a handful of tissues, watching as she scurried out of the bedroom on her tiptoes. He cleaned himself up and retrieved his pants from the floor.

 

He still couldn't believe that she let him do that to her. And that she liked it. The act itself was surreal—ludicrous—if viewed objectively, but it was... Well, he was coming to understand he truly had been missing out all these years.

 

The room was freezing, he realized; he wondered if he should dig out his pyjamas after all or get dressed again. Probably a good idea to shower before he went home; John didn't have a sensitive nose by any means, but even he would be able to smell the sex on him from across the room.

 

He didn't think he wanted to go back to bed, as he'd had a full eight hours of sleep and sleeping too much made him feel terrible. He might be persuaded to go back to bed if Molly was going to, though. He found himself not wanting the morning to end. He had to leave, of course, and he didn't want to overstay his welcome, but he could spare a few more hours.

 

"You, ah, want tea or coffee?" Molly asked as he slipped past her in the hallway after she'd left the bathroom.

 

"Tea, please," he said before disappearing into the bathroom. He might as well shower if she wasn't going back to bed. The idea of having a lie-in with her was a lark, anyway. Maybe some other time.

 

Everything was looking up. He had a plan, and it was a good one; he was going to get Mary and John back together and he was going to take down that reprehensible bastard Magnussen in one fell swoop. He also had this thing with Molly, which didn't have a label yet, but was definitely a thing. After everything settled they could talk about it, if they had to. Probably should.

 

That was all for later, though. For now he was going to have a shower and tea and maybe he'd even be able to convince Molly to make him some breakfast while they went over her workups.

 


End file.
